Show me Roses
by Boducky
Summary: This was supposed to be a drabble, but I am apparently incapable of keeping it short. The third V fic I've started, the first I've finished. What if, while imprisoned at Larkhill, V and Valerie had shared slightly more than a letter? Please review.


**Show me Roses**

Disclaimer: I do not own V for Vendetta in either Graphic Novel form or Movie form. Woe.

I believe that I can truthfully claim to be unique amongst all humans in that I can say I can clearly remember my very first sensations I ever felt, the very first thought I ever had.

The sensation was a searing, agonizing pain, tearing through every single inch of my being.

The thought was, _My God, why won't you let me die?_

I opened my eyes that day and existed only in that moment. I had no knowledge or memory of where, what or who I was. It can be said that I was reborn in that moment, that I started a new life as a new person with a new and bloody purpose. Be that as it may, I still cannot help to mourn the passing of a man that I have never known: Myself.

I quickly learned what and where I was; a prisoner, and lab rat, at the detention facility of Larkhill. To the question 'who', there was a much less satisfying answer. I am the man in room number five. One of four dozen chosen (cursed) to test a new virus. One of the last survivors and perhaps the last hope of garnering any meaningful research and information. An anomaly in their experiment.

My life consisted of my cell, the facility's laboratory and the hallways connecting the two. When I was not stumbling to keep up with the guards or being subjected to tests, needles and bright lights I was huddled in my cell, crying and longing for death. That, or wistfully imagining the death of the guards and scientists.

My first emotion was that of despair. Hatred and anger followed soon after. As far I as I could recall, I had known no other emotions, and believed that I would know no other.

The number 11 is a significant one for me. I do not know the exact measure of time in hours or days, but I do know that eleven times I had been taken from my cell and brought to the lab. Eleven times, I had been dragged through hallways while trying to hunch over in pain; eleven times I had faced that hated woman and her lackeys. Each time, I had wanted to reach out and hurt them. Instead of merely screaming and raging in impotent fury, I wanted to exact the bloody vengeance I had promised, I wanted to lock my hands around their throats. They never took me seriously, shackled and helpless as I was. They were dismissive or amused or disdainful. I hated them so.

After the eleventh time, I curled up in my cell and shook with rage and hatred. They spread through me and infected my mind as completely as the disease had infected my body. I wanted to kill.

Through the haze of poisonous hate, I barely heard a scraping sound from near one of my cell walls. I ignored it at first, believing it to be just another rat come to visit and to steal what little disgusting food I was served. It took several moments to realize that no rat moved so laboriously and hesitantly. Slowly, ignoring the pain, I uncurled and dragged myself towards the rat hole.

Peering into the hole shows me nothing. It's impossible to lie so close to the hole without blocking the light. I shift my body slightly and bring my arm to the hole, thrusting my fingers inside. At this point, I am above caring if a hungry rat bites a couple of my fingers off. My extremities numbed from the cold, I am not guided by touch but by the sound of paper crinkling underneath my fingers. Oh so gently, I grab hold and extract it from the gap in the wall.

With my prize in my desensitized hands, I crawl to the door and place the paper in the feeble ray of light shining from underneath it. It is a note. Lying flat on the floor, I delicately spread the sheet of paper beneath my fingers. I read it.

After reading the last line, a new mix of emotions burn in my chest. I do not know exactly what it is I am feeling, or at least, I didn't understand them at that moment. Much later, I came to learn the names of those feelings.

Camaraderie. Empathy. A bittersweet joy. Hope.

My twelfth visit to the lab is different, and everyone notices. They think I have somehow been weakened and broken since my last visit. I have, in truth, found a new strength which has given me determination and purpose. Of course, I do not share this with them. They run their tests, make their observations and send me back to my cell. I wait until the guard's footsteps fade into the distance before scrambling to the rat hole once again.

I don't place my fingers inside, don't search for another note. Pressing my mouth against the wall, I whisper, "Valerie."

Scooting away from the hole, I squint towards the dim light on the other side, trying to see if there is movement in the next cell. A minute of silence passes. "Valerie," I call louder, more insistently. I have to know if she is there, have to hear her voice. More time passes, and I start to despair. Did she die right after delivering her message? Did she die while I was in the laboratory? Did she even exist at all?

The sound of rustling clothes and skin on stone reach my ears. I gaze hungrily at the hole in the wall.

"Hello?" My god, she sounds so weak and frail. This woman who sent such a strong message has wasted away. I can just see a bit of her face, ashen skin and one weary eye. It breaks my heart.

"You are really Valerie?" I demand. In my eagerness, I sound somewhat harsh. "You wrote this note? This is your life?" Her face shifts, she is nodding.

"Yes." I hesitate. Now what do I say? "And what is your story? What is your life?" Her soft question shocks me. Why does she ask, since no one her cares about me? An inexplicable anger surged right through his entire being.

"I have no memory of my life before Larkhill. I guess the virus must have destroyed all that," I reply with forced calm. There is no answer. I can tell that she has noticed the hostility in my tone.

"I'm so sorry," she whispers. I laugh bitterly and let my rage boil over.

"You're sorry? Why are _you_ sorry?" My voice lashes like a whip. "You have happy memories to hold on to. You can just lay back and dream about the life you used to have. You know times were better and could perhaps go back to the way things were. You said it yourself, 'for three years, I had roses and apologized to no one'. Yeah, you had roses and tea, a movie career and a woman who loved you very much. I have _nothing_!" My voice cracked. "I can't remember any happier times," I spat. "All I have is this place. This place and these feelings of pain and fear and anger and _hate_!"

My skin is warm from my recent exertion, hot tears stream down my face. I lay my cheek against the cold stone floor, grateful for the calming effect. My heart was racing, my breath bursting from my ravaged lips in bursts of air. I lay panting in silence.

"I am so sorry," she repeated softly. "I do wish you could remember. I wish you had had a life with roses and tea and love, I honestly do. It's not fair that I should remember happiness and you don't." She doesn't yell, doesn't recriminate me for my passionate outburst. Yet, Valerie still made him feel ashamed.

"But what once was, isn't as important as what can be," her sweet voice continued. "I have nothing left in me. I won't last long. And even though you never knew better times, I very much hope that you do live to escape this place and live to see better times after these. And I never will." Icy fear and sorrow grip my chest, making my breath become ragged and tears stream anew.

"I don't want you to die," I whisper truthfully.

"That is the most beautiful thing you could have given me." She shifts her body, and I see her pale lips curve into a content smile. "You are beautiful. You have lovely hazel eyes, just like Rebecca had."

"You are beautiful, too," I rasp.

"Close your eyes," she commands gently. I obey without question. "You don't remember anything before Larkhill? No songs? No tastes? No smells?"

"No."

"Oh. How to do this then?" She pauses for a long while. "Do you remember when we go to the lab; Father Lilliman and Commander Prothero sometimes have a drink with them in white mugs? Have you ever smelled that?"

"Yes."

"And the biscuits they eat? I think they do it on purpose to torture us further." I smile ruefully.

"Yes, I remember all of that."

She sighs. "Then imagine that we are sitting somewhere. Oh, by the forest you can see out of the window in the first tiled hallway on the way to the laboratory."

"On a sunny day, with a slight breeze," I add. I see her smile.

"Yes, a beautiful day. And the wind is rustling the leaves. If you rub your fingers against the paper I gave you, it gives you a vague idea of the sound." I do as she suggests. "Hm… maybe not quite a good idea, but not bad. And we have white mugs with tea in them. I like it with milk and a bit of honey…"

"I'd like to try it like that too."

"Fine, yours has milk and honey as well. And we have biscuits. And strawberries. They're a red berry, shaped like an upside down tear drop; they have little seeds on the outside. Strawberries are sweet and juicy and a bit cool against the tongue." I smile.

"And what about roses?" I ask. "Can you show me roses?" Valerie stops talking, and I am worried. Did my request make her angry? Or too sad to continue? I peer through the small hole, trying to see her. She has moved. I want to cry.

"Do you see it?" she asks suddenly. I peer towards the other cell. "On my ankle. There's a picture of a flower. Red with a green stem." The flower is a bright, bold red. In my short existence, I have always associated that color with blood and pain. This red was beautiful and breathtaking.

"Is that what a rose looks like?" She moves so her face is once again at the hole, then nods. "And we have a bunch of them, you and I," I continue softly. "What was the rose you mentioned in your letter?"

"The Scarlet Carson," she replies.

"Yes, we have the biggest, most beautiful Scarlet Carsons. You, me and Ruth. And we…"

Valerie starts to cry. "Ruth is dead. I know she is," she laments softly.

"You don't know that," I hasten to placate her. "You can't be sure. We can make her part of this, of our pretend day by the forest with roses and tea. Or, we can leave her out, if you prefer."

I wait in worried silence. Finally, Valerie continues. "Ruth is smiling and feeds me a cookie." I smile as the story unfolds. "And she brushes her hair back. It keeps flying in her face. And she pours you another cup of tea."

"I thank her as she hands it to me, and I give her some of my roses so that we will all have some."

"Yes, we all have roses. And she says 'Thank you. How did you now that I love roses so much?'"

"And I reply, 'A little angel told me.'" Valerie laughs softly. "You are an angel. I heard another prisoner muttering about them. That they are beautiful and help guide people through difficult times. That angels save people." I place my fingers into the hole. "Thank you, Valerie." Through the gaps left in the hole, I see her reach in as well. We strain and stretch in the darkness until the very tips of our fingers touch. I have briefly seen her face, heard her voice, and touched her skin. She is real. Maybe this feeling of hope is real as well.

The only peace the man has ever known is shattered by the sound of footsteps echoing in the hallway. He starts and withdraws his hand as if he had been burned. If they found the hole, knew that two of the prisoners had been communicating and comforting each other…. The guards would block the hole and move one or both of them, perhaps harm Valerie. They both backed away from the hole in the wall and tried to act as though it didn't exist.

Suddenly, the man heard her voice call out. "I'm sorry I don't know your name. I know I never will. I'm almost done here. But please, can we continue this sometime? Please?"

I decide to make a poor attempt at levity. "I do believe I shall have an appointment with the Doctor shortly, but after that, I have no pressing plans. Another picnic would certainly be in order." She chuckles. "Stay strong," I beg of her.

"I love you," she says earnestly. Though I have never known love before, I understand completely.

"I love you, too." I risk going back to the hole. "For your letter, for the tea, for showing me roses. I love you."

Through the hole in the wall, I hear the cell door open and booted feet enter her room. She is dragged away in silence. Time passes, and I wait. I think of our afternoon of imagined freedom and the joy it brought me. Is this the inch that Valerie wrote of? Is this the one inch that will always remain only mine. Time passes, until heavy footsteps come to my cell and I am dragged out. Visit number thirteen for me. This is the second time I think of something other than hate. How many visits had Valerie have? How many more would she survive, or would I survive, for that matter? Is this as difficult for her as it is for me?

I wait with impatience for this session to end. I hear the Doctor remarking that I seem anxious and agitated. She speculates that this may be an unforeseen side effect to previous tests. Hearing this makes me smile as I contemplate further methods I could use to purposely mislead the Doctor and skew her results.

After what seems like an eternity, I am dragged back to my cell. Instead of curling up in a ball as usual, I crawl directly to my only link to Valerie. I strain my ears, trying to determine if there is a guard in her cell right now. I don't hear anything. "Valerie," I call gently. "Valerie, I'm back. And I think I can free up my schedule for another picnic, if you have nothing better to do. What do you say to that, my dear lady?"

There is no reply. I felt frantic, panicked and consumed by a crushing sense of hopelessness that I never would have known had I not found that damned letter. What was happening? Why wasn't Valerie answering? I tried over a hundred times over the next days, day or night, before and after more tests. I never got an answer. After a bit, I realized it didn't matter.

Valerie was gone, she had to be dead. But we still had our picnics; I just supplied Valerie's parts in my head. I tried to remember her voice, but it faded. As did the memory of her face, the brief feel of her fingers. No matter. He still had her letter, her message, the renewed sense of purpose she had given him. The man in cell five also had his first happy memories; those of a woman who had shown him roses.


End file.
